In the Blink of an Eye, for the Space of a Breath
by Battery Bug
Summary: During a hunt, Dean finds himself in a situation that rattles him badly, even though Castiel is right there with him. But perhaps Cas has something to do with Dean's panic in the first place? Destiel. One-shot. Lots of swearing. Set at some point (probably fairly early on) where no major catastrophies are immediately pending, and where Cas is fine.
#

When the fight goes bad, Dean's the only one who doesn't see it coming.

He is taunting the demon keeping its attention on him. Sam is getting close with the knife, but it seems Dean's taunts are a little too effective.

Suddenly the rusted corpse of a truck comes flying towards him. By the time he notices, Cas is only half a step away, running towards him rather than risking flying through the sporadic no-flight zones, the sigils painted all over create.

In the space of a breath:

Dean sees the demon light up, as Sam gets it in the back.

Castiel crashes into him and they go tumbling.

They land in a shallow ditch, the weight of the angel knocking the breath from Dean in the exact moment the truck's bulk lands on top of them and everything goes dark.

#

Dean blinks. Castiel moves on top of him, sliding to the side, removing his weight from the hunter. Above them, less than two feet from Dean's face is a mass of metal. The ditch is almost broad enough that they can lie side by side, but not without touching. There's little room above Dean's head before the ditch narrows and shallows, sealing off that potential exit. How much room there is by his feet Dean cannot tell, but no light comes in that way either.

"Are you okay?" Castiel's warm breath fans over his face. Dean's still staring at the metal above him.

They're trapped.

"Dean, are you _hurt_?" Cas is more urgent now, and Dean manages a shake of his head. As far as he can tell, he's just got a couple of bruises and a sore backside. Castiel shifts to look at him, and Dean realises that there is a tiny amount of light. Not really enough to see by, but enough to just barely make out silhouettes in the shadows.

"Dean! Cas! Oh god," Sam's voice filters down to them.

"We are okay," Cas only raises his voice slightly, but judging on how the frantic chanting cuts off, it's enough. "Can you get us out? There are sigils on the truck, and I am powerless."

"Let me see, if I can clear some of the ditch," Sam's voice drifts back.

Dean's still staring at the metal. He lies very still. Cas breathes against his face.

Time passes.

"This isn't going to work," comes Sam's disembodied voice, "I need... Hell, I think I need to find a crane."

(Dean doesn't whimper.)

(The pause in Castiel's breathing is not a reaction to anything.)

"What about a tow-truck," Castiel suggests, and Dean swears he can feel the angel's eyes boring into the side of his face. Boring is good. Maybe they could bore their way out?

"How much room d'you have down there?" Castiel doesn't answer, and Dean's not really processing the words. (Maybe that's good. He probably shouldn't think too hard on that last question.) "I don't want to risk it. The ground's uneven and..."

"I understand. You should go, Sam."

"I will be back as soon as I can."

Sam's footsteps are soundless as he retreats. Dean wonders how much the truck weighs. Can the soil hold it up? "Dean." Will he end his days (again) here, suffocated and crushed in an all too literal sense? " _Dean!_ " Castiel manages to manoeuvre his arm up to grab at Dean's biceps. Dean finally notices the harsh sound of his own too-quick breaths.

Breathing. There isn't much air down here. He should probably try to control his breathing.

"Dean, talk to me." There's something in Cas' voice. Dean can't quite make it out over the loud beating of his heart. "Dean, _say something!_ "

An order. That seems to spark something in his brain, "Fuck."

Cas lets out a harsh breath, "Are you okay?"

Dean opens his mouth and closes it. Tries again. "Fuck," is what comes out. "Fuck, fuck, fuck." Strangely his own voice snaps him out of it. Partially. Enough to realise that repeating that isn't going to get them anywhere. "Fuck, no, crap. Wait." Another deep breath.

Castiel shifts next to him, the weight pressed against Dean's side moving slightly on top of him again. Like it had been at first. Castiel had pushed him out of the way, landed between him and the carcass of the truck. The truck with the sigils that renders Cas all but human. Dean makes a herculean effort to get his scrambled thoughts under control. The rapid beat of his heart he can't do anything about. "You okay, Cas?" he grinds out, "You hurt?"

Castiel exhales a long shaky breath, "I am unharmed. We didn't get hit. Just... trapped."

Dean can hear his own breath tremble. He fights it, "Talk to me."

"I... What?"

"Talk. Say something. Anything. You need to talk," his words slur together near the end; he is speaking too fast.

"Dean, are you okay?"

Dean makes a half-choked, exasperated sound, "'I seem okay to you?" He wrestles with his growing panic for the control over his lungs, "Just, please, talk to me? Tell me something, I don't care. Distract me."

Castiel is quiet for a moment which stretches on forever. Dean's breath hitches, and he tries to seal his lips against the insufficient flow of air altogether, to trick himself into believing he has some sort of control. It barely works for a full second. The space seems to be shrinking.

"Jupiter has more moons than Saturn. Your scientists have discovered most of them, but they still haven't confirmed them. They're waiting for more information. I don't understand. I thought humans relied on science in this age. Why won't they believe what they've seen with their own eyes?"

Dean blinks. Blinks again. "Humans are stubborn, Cas, thought you'd've realised by now." Shallow breath, "Most people don't believe in ghosts, either," another, "That's including some of the ones who've _seen_ me'n'Sam get rid of their ghastly roomies." A little amused snort makes its way out through Dean's laboured breathing.

"There are currently 27 'unconfirmed' moons that humans know of. There are more, really, but not belonging to Jupiter. Once you get your confirmation, Jupiter will have 67 moons."

"When I was a kid, Pluto was a planet. And a dog." Dean's mumble is slightly breathless still. He swears he can _hear_ Castiel's head tilt in the dark. And it really is dark. Is it getting darker? The air seems to be getting thinner.

There's another not insignificant pause, "A dog?"

Dean doesn't know what dog Castiel is talking about. He doesn't know why it matters. How can it possibly matter, when the metal death trap on top of them keeps sinking closer and closer, millimetre by fucking millimetre? "Fuck," Dean hisses.

"Dean, please, I don't understand what is wrong?"

"Nothing. Just, fuck, keep talking."

"There _have_ been dogs in space. I don't know about a Pluto, but the first was Laika, sent up by the Russians. They fitted her in a harness in the cabin, that allowed her to stand, sit and lie, but there wasn't room for her to turn around."

Dean can hardly hear the angel over the blood rushing in his ears. "Not fucking helping," he gets out. Castiel stops speaking again.

"Is space not a good topic for conversation?"

For a second, Dean actually wants to cry. How can Castiel be so oblivious? The angel is right here with him, trapped in a shallow grave. Right there, warm against his side. Dean tries to focus on that, but he is so used to forcing himself to ignore the angel's proximity at any and all times, that he finds it hard. " _Space_ is great," he wheezes, "but maybe not outer space right now."

Castiel takes too long to answer again. Their little enclosure is getting very warm, isn't it? Dean's sweating. He doesn't seem to be able to get enough oxygen into his lungs.

"Dean, are you bothered by the lack of space?"

A disbelieving snort of laughter tears itself from Dean's throat, followed by another shallow breath and a whimper he's too far gone to deny having made.

There's more urgency in Castiel's voice as his hand finds Dean's arm again. He squeezes. Hard. "Close your eyes," it's the last thing Dean wants to do; the roof is going to fall on him any second now, and though it's dark, he has to watch, has to keep watching, has to know, has to be prepared, has to— " _Dean_!" The angel shifts again, and he is back fully on top of the hunter.

The hand not attached to Dean's arm comes up to cup his face. Dean can feel Cas' breath on his face, but he can't think about that, not when the angel's body is pressing against his – too heavy, oh God, it is the lid of the coffin pressing them together, and—

" _Listen to me_ ," Castiel presses even closer, and Dean tries, he really fucking does, "There's a mountain range in Norway that I like. I go there sometimes to think, or when I need to be alone. There is nothing but white as far as the eye can see: pure brilliant snow. The sky is blue, more vibrant and more beautiful than anything you've ever seen." (That's not right, a thought sneaks through Dean's panic to insist. Dean _knows_ the most beautiful blue he'll ever see.) "The air up there is fresh and crisp and it is wonderful," Castiel's breath washes over his face, "Can you imagine it?"

Dean's breathing hasn't slowed, but he tries to focus on Castiel's words. He can almost imagine the white plains, sees an entire sky in that perfect blue he knows. His body registers the form pressed against him, and for a moment the pressure is more reassuring than debilitating. "Go on," he whispers, since Cas seems to be waiting.

"If I had my powers right now, I could show you," Castiel presses their foreheads together (more pressure, and Dean's breath catch, then it is gone), "I could take you there some day, if you want?"

Dean's not sure he can answer, not sure he knows what the answer would be, if he actually _had_ the air for it, but it doesn't matter. There's a loud noise and then the metal over them really is shifting, and this is it, they are dying here, now, and there's nothing they can do.

Dean is hyperventilating. Some weird (probably hunter-bred) part of his brain that insists on still functioning informs him that, at this rate, he'll likely pass out from lack of air before he dies. But he doesn't want to. 'Cause Cas is here, and Cas is going to die too, and the only thing that is worse than dying is to die alone, and he knows, and Cas knows, because they've both done it, and Cas has died, and it was Dean's fault that Cas died and—

And Cas is talking. The look on his face is frantic, and where did the light come from?

"Dean, breathe. You have to _breathe_."

The metal above them disappears completely, and sunlight cuts Dean's eyes. He is light-headed. He closes his lids against the brightness, just for a second…

"What's wrong?" Sam's voice cuts through his murky mind, the tight-wrought tension sharpening his thoughts more efficiently than the oxygen, Dean vaguely realises a much steadier breath is now allowing into his lungs. "What happened?"

"I don't know," Castiel's voice is tense, too, and Dean realises that though he's still wrapped up in the angel, they are both out of the ditch and sitting mostly upright. So, time has passed. Dean groans.

"Dean, are you alright?" Dean forces his eyes open to meet his brother's worried gaze.

"Just peachy," his voice is slightly raw.

"What happened?" Sam repeats.

"I think I hyperventilated myself into a faint," only slowly does Dean realise that this might not be something he would usually admit. He's also still sitting placidly in Castiel's embrace. So much for oxygen to his brain.

Sam's eyes dart to the side, and Dean follows his gaze, before quickly refocusing on his brother's face rather than the shallow ditch. He sees Sam come to some sort of realisation. "Since when are you claustrophobic?"

"What?" Dean pushes up slightly to sit under his own powers, and Castiel's arms fall away.

"You're not hurt, are you?" Sam's studying him intently.

"No. No, Cas saved my hide. Again."

"Right, so, panic attack? Since when the _fuck_ are you claustrophobic?"

Dean looks at his hands in his lap. Sam sounds more than a little upset, and okay, hunting is going to get him in a shitload of situations where claustrophobia is a problem. Exhibit A, case in point.

But more than that, Dean knows that Sam is well aware that this has never been a problem for him before. Which means that his brother more than likely wants to go digging for the trauma behind. Dean doesn't want that. He knows exactly which episode set off this particular shit storm. More than enough digging done.

"Don't, Sam."

"No, seriously Dean, this is important. Since when—"

"I said, _don't_!" Dean lowers his voice, "Not right now, Sam. Please?"

Sam shuts his mouth with an audible click. He gives Dean a concerned, almost pitying look but doesn't say anything more.

Dean gets up and starts brushing his jeans off, but gives it up as pointless almost immediately. "Let's just go back, yeah? Do we need to deal with the corpses first?"

Sam and Cas roll the dead vessels into the ditch, before Sam lights them up. Dean doesn't look.

#

Back in the motel room, Castiel lingers in the corner, unmoving. Sam and Dean sit on their beds, not looking at each other. Dean knows he is not going to avoid the conversation for much longer.

"Go on, Sammy," he mutters resignedly.

"It _was_ a panic attack, right?"

"Yeah."

"Brought on by claustrophobia?"

"I guess."

Sam turns to look at him, and Dean reluctantly meets his gaze, "I never knew you were claustrophobic." It's not a question, and Dean doesn't say anything. Sam sighs, "I would have known. We've been... I _would_ have known. You _weren't._ Claustrophobic. Before."

Dean can see Sam's thoughts churning in the expression on his face, as clearly as he can hear it in the disjointed sentences. He knows what comes next. The question of what exactly 'before' means. _When_.

"What happened?" Sam asks.

Dean shakes his head. Sam looks almost… pained.

"Was it… Was it when I was… away?" he takes a deep breath, "When I left for Stanford, I mean?"

His little brother thinks something happened because he wasn't there to have Dean's back. Christ, they've been hunting for years after that – Sam should realise he would have known by now, if that was the case. Dean shakes his head again, "No. It wasn't… then."

"But what, then?"

"It doesn't matter, Sammy."

"It does, though. I don't know how to put this nicely, but this is one _bad_ phobia for a hunter. Just imagine all the situations—"

"I'd really rather not," Dean manages a wry smile, though he mostly sounds weary.

Sam sighs, "How long has it been like this? Is it a new thing?"

"Not really," Dean admits.

"It's a problem."

"I'm not saying it isn't."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

It's Dean's turn to sigh, "I thought I had it under control."

"Doesn't look that way," Sam says, though he obviously tries to be gentle. Non-confrontational.

"Obviously." Dean's reply doesn't quite manage to match it.

"Won't you tell me what happened?"

"No."

"Maybe we can help you, Dean." Sam gestures between himself and Castiel who has been standing still like a statue, probably hoping that the brothers would forget his presence. Dean's not likely to. Also, Sam's argument is counterproductive.

"I said no."

"Dean, I get that you want to be all macho and—"

"That's not the problem, Sam. Let it go."

"But _why_?"

"Because it is none of your fucking business, okay?!" Dean's voice raises.

"But it's going to be! I need to know if you're going to freak out on me if we get stuck in an elevator or something, next time we're hunting!" Sam answers in kind.

"I'm not going to freak out in a fucking _elevator!"_ Dean is full on yelling now.

"It's a fucking small space, Dean!"

"It's not the space, IT'S BEING BURIED!"

Dean breathes heavily in the dead silence that follows his last outburst. Sam is staring at him wide-eyed. Castiel is not in his line of sight, and he doesn't know whether to be thankful for that or… He decides to be thankful.

"Small spaces are not the problem, Sam," Dean has wrangled his voice back to a sensible level, "So there's that. And the other part is still a fucking problem for hunting, I get that, but… What do you want me to do? I didn't ask to wake up—" Dean cuts himself off a second too late. Behind him the tell-tale rustle of Castiel's wings tells him the angel has left. "Fuck."

"I'm sorry."

"Little late for that, Sammy." But Sam looks contrite enough that Dean sighs and shakes his head. He can't quite resist looking over to Castiel's now empty corner. "I didn't want him to know," he admits quietly.

"I understand," Sam seems equally subdued and Dean shakes his head yet again, standing up.

"I didn't want him to know, but that doesn't change the fact that that was a major fuck-up on Heaven's part. Why the fuck would they leave me to wake up in my _own fucking coffin_?"

"Yeah. I don't know." Sam stands as well.

"Let's get something to eat. Then I'm going to get hammered."

"Dean..."

"Please, Sammy, let it go. This once."

Sam gives him a long look, then nods once. He follows him out the door without another word.

#

Dean's on his third beer when Castiel joins him at the bar. He'd managed to get Sam to go back to the hotel, give him some space after promising he wouldn't drive back.

"Dammit, Cas," Dean hisses harshly, and the angel seems taken a back for an instant, pausing with his mouth open. "What did I tell you about using the fucking door?"

"Oh. My apologies."

Dean doesn't get to say anything more before the bartender materialises (in an entirely human way on her part) in front of them, "Oh, hey there. I didn't even notice you coming in! What can I get you?" She sounds obliging enough, but Dean can trace a hint of suspicion in her eyes.

He puts on his best smile and gives what's supposed to be a good-natured eye-roll, "He'll have a whiskey. Me too. Two fingers, love."

"Coming right up!" She answers his grin, and Dean settles into his expression a little more easily. He doesn't turn to look at Cas until the liquor is in front of them.

"Dude, sit down," he nods towards the barstool at Cas' hip, while pushing his glass in front of him on the counter. The angel complies.

"Are you alright, Dean?" Dean _does not_ shiver at that gravel voice.

"I'd be better if people would stop asking me that," he smirks, taking a sip of his whiskey.

Castiel copies him and Dean is ready to bet money on Cas actually using some angel mojo to keep from coughing. He puts the glass down gingerly, and Dean starts laughing. Castiel glares at him. Dean empties his own glass.

"Not your thing?" he nods at the golden liquid in Cas' glass.

"No," the angel glares at the drink.

"Probably shouldn't have gotten you two fingers then," Dean smirks and trades the angel's glass for his own.

"I can handle any number of fingers," Cas replies, looking part confused and part offended. Dean very nearly chokes on his drink.

" _What_?"

"What?" Cas replies confused, and go figure; the innocent angel has no idea what he just said. Dean averts his eyes and shakes his head.

"Dean, are you okay?"

"Seriously, dude, I don't want to talk about it. I just want to get drunk enough to sleep, easy as that."

Castiel sucks in a breath, "That does not seem... healthy."

"It isn't. I think I have a valid excuse this time."

"Isn't there another way? I believe counting live stock is a common practice?"

Dean snorts amused, but still doesn't look over, "Sheep, Cas, just sheep. And I highly doubt that's going to be enough. My mind's not exactly a nice place to be right now."

"I could help you?"

"Huh?" Dean turns to look at him and Cas tilts his head in response.

"I could help you get to sleep."

"Yeah, no thanks, man. Your mojo always leave me reeling for days. The only kind of help I'd accept right now would be of the physical exercise-kind, if you now what I mean," Dean grins cockily, before emptying his second glass of whiskey.

"I could do that." Dean almost chokes for the second time. After a minute Castiel hits him on the back, just this side of too hard. Damn angel doesn't know his own strength. Or what he is saying, obviously. Dean manages to catch his breath.

"Cas…" he trails of, not knowing where that sentence is going at all.

"Can I get you another round?" the perky bartender interrupts, nodding at the empty glasses in front of them. Dean's throat is still sore, and he wonders how much more abuse his lungs can take today.

"No, thanks."

He gets up, tugging lightly at Cas' sleeve when the angel doesn't immediately follow, then heads for the door.

Once outside, Dean pauses to let the chilly night air wash over him. He is pleasantly buzzed, not nearly drunk enough to fall into a mindless stupor, but he supposes taking Cas up on the offer of some mojo-induced sleep is better than to choke to death in the bar.

"Where is the Impala?" Cas is scanning the parking lot.

"At the motel. Sam took her back."

"But how are you going to get back then?"

"I thought I'd walk."

"I can—" Castiel is already reaching two fingers towards him.

"Dude, _no_!" Dean steps back, hands up.

"But it would be faster?" Castiel tilts his head, but thankfully lowers his hand.

"It's only like, a ten minute walk. It's nothing. It's not even that cold." Dean starts walking, pleased when Cas falls into step next to him, but the angel seems tense. He doesn't meet Dean's gaze. "Cas?"

They both keep walking. It is a while before Castiel answers. "How angry are you with me?" he is still looking straight ahead.

"What do you mean?"

"What I did. How angry are you?"

"Cas, you couldn't have known."

Castiel makes a small sound, "I should have."

"No, Cas," Dean grabs his arm and makes him stop and look at him, "You understood jack-squat about humans back then. Believe me, I remember," he grins, "You couldn't have known. It's fine."

"But it is going to impact your hunting." Castiel seems distraught. Dean sighs, and resumes walking.

"Maybe, maybe not. Yes, it's going to be a problem if I get myself buried," Dean shudders to think that this is a very real possibility in the life that he leads, "but who's to say that is wasn't a latent thing? Yeah, sure, you were involved in the first time I ended up breathing six feet under, but… I bet it would've freaked me out anyway, whenever it happened."

"But you were _buried alive_ because of me," Dean can feel Cas' eyes burn into the back of his head, but he keeps walking.

"I was buried _alive_ , because of you, Cas. Key word being _alive_. The buried part is on my own bad choices, I'd say. And Cas," he looks over to meet the angels eyes (and damn, they are so blue, even in the darkness), "you saved my life again today. I probably seem like the world's most ungrateful bastard to you, but yeah, I'm not, you know? I guess what I'm trying to say is _thank you_."

"Always."

That is a promise if Dean has ever heard one, and it makes him stop in his tracks. Cas stops in front of him, once again too close for normal propriety. But they aren't normal, anyway. Dean remembers being trapped with Cas, with the angel's body pressed against his and takes a stuttering breath. As always, he forces himself to ignore Castiel's proximity and looks away.

They're on the edge of the motel's parking lot. Dean can just make out the Impala in the back. It gives him an idea.

"Do you want to stay for a while? We could just… talk?" He sounds like a teenager with a crush. He's ridiculous.

Cas looks towards the motel, "Your brother is asleep. Disturbing him would be inconsiderate."

Dean snorts. "We can sit in the car," he nods towards the Impala.

Castiel seems to hesitate for a second, then, "Okay."

They make their way to the car together, and Castiel gets in to the back seat seemingly without thinking. Dean blinks, then climbs in from the other side. He shuts the door behind him and they are left sitting in the darkness. "Dude," Dean can't help grinning. Castiel gives him a questioning look.

There are no street lights in their corner of the parking lot, but they are not in the middle of nowhere, so even though it is, Dean looks quickly at his phone (one new message from Sam informing him that he's going to bed) a little past midnight, he can still see fairly well.

"What is it?" Cas asks, when Dean doesn't say anything more.

"Why are we in the back of my car?"

"Why shouldn't we be?"

"Not for nothing, but the only times I get in the back of my own car is when I expect to get laid." Dean barely gets the words out before he wants to bite off his tongue.

His mind helpfully informs him that the last time he saw Castiel look that startled was at a brothel.

"Fuck. Shit, Cas, I..." Dean bites his lip. He what, exactly? Didn't mean it like that? Doesn't want that? His day has been too long and too strenuous, and he has had just a little too much to drink to believe that _himself_. And Castiel hasn't moved. "Fuck," Dean breathes out. And then he leans in and presses their lips together.

In his defence, Dean reasons, he was buried alive, had a panic attack and fainted today. That could probably do a number on anybody's brain. Surely, that's more than enough stress to excuse how he just messed up months', _years'_ careful control and suppression of any desire to do what he just did. He jerks back.

"Fuck."

"If you want."

Dean has a split second to wonder if he was actually flattened by that truck earlier, and if this is his fucked up version of Heaven (panic attack and all), then Cas leans forwards and presses their lips together again, inelegantly but enthusiastically. Dean stops thinking altogether.

Castiel presses against him, and Dean tries to slide further down to lie across the seat. He hits his head on the door and involuntarily breaks away from the kiss, "Ow."

"Are you okay?" Cas sounds breathless, and fuck if that isn't the hottest thing Dean's ever heard.

"Yeah, yeah, just not a lot of room here." Over him, Castiel freezes, "What—"

"Are you okay?" Castiel repeats, a lot more urgent and a lot less sexy.

"Hey, Cas, I'm fine. This is my baby, and you're here, and this is not a bad kind of limited space in any way, okay?" Cas looks at him doubtingly. "Come here."

Dean manoeuvres till his back is pressed against the seat, one leg bent and up against the backrest, the other planted on the floor to keep him steady. He gets Cas settles on top of him and suddenly their faces are only inches apart.

"It didn't help much that I was with you earlier," Cas' lips trail against Dean's as he speaks.

"That's bullshit and you know it."

"Is it?" Cas pulls back to look at him, but Dean isn't having any of that. Hooking a hand around the angel's neck he draws him down into a bruising kiss.

"Less talking," he mutters, before occupying his lips, and teeth, and tongue at Cas' throat, leaving no space for Castiel to protest.


End file.
